faderift | { open } I left the only home I knew

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{ jamie mccrimmon }

{ open } I left the only home I knew

WHO: Alfsigr and you
WHAT: Various activities about Skyhold
WHEN: Throughout Haring
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: If you have something specific you'd like to do not covered by these more vague options, please by all means start a thread. I'm available at

andyourbirdcanscene should you desire to hash out details of any sort, but honestly I will roll with anything. Any. thing.

By this point Alfsigr has more or less settled in to life at Skyhold, though she still isn't precisely sure where she fits in the grand scheme of the Inquisition.

She's not quite an academic or scholar, though she spends a good amount of time in the library reading just about anything she can get her hands on. Whether it's an educational text or a work of fiction. (She's read Hard in Hightown half a dozen times at least. Consequently, any time she happens to occupy the same space as the book's author, she gets just a little bit giddy, even if she tries really hard not to let on.)

She's no herbalist, but she helps tend to the various plants in the courtyard all the same. While they don't exactly thrive under her care, she hasn't killed one yet, so that's a plus.

She's certainly no spirit healer, and so far as anyone knows, she's no battlemage. She doesn't even have her own staff, but she makes due with what she can borrow from the stores when it comes time to practice. It isn't that she isn't enthusiastic about her craft, but she seems reserved. Like she might actually be afraid of what she could do, except that isn't quite it either.

She's no drinker, either. Despite all continued efforts at it. She spends a decent amount of time in the tavern - she finds the people terribly interesting, and she enjoys the taste of wine even when it's not great wine. But she doesn't hold that wine well. Half a glass in and she's usually rosy cheeked, slightly drowsy, and definitely giggly. One day she'll giggle in the wrong person's direction.

So, Alfsigr knows all the things she isn't. Surely that should eliminate enough to tell her what she is. No? Well, no matter. Nothing seems to dampen the young woman's spirit as she passes through the various public areas of Skyhold, inquisitive but quiet, seemingly without desire to cause a nuisance of herself, unless spoken to.

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Color creeps into Alfsigr's cheeks - even more than the rosy glow brought on by her glass of mulled wine - as his lips graze the back of her hand. When she draws her hand back, she tucks her arm against her chest, rubbing her opposite palm over the top. The motion may be awkward, but it isn't to be mistaken for distaste.

First he makes it clear he intends to ask her to dance if the music presents the opportunity, but then he asks her about the Circle. That saves her from having to stammer some response about the original topic. Home is easier. "I do," miss the Circle. "I didn't spend my whole life there. I still remember what it was like to travel from place to place, so the transition has been a bit easier for me than some others, I think. But... it was my home. The people were nice there." If a little oppressive. But the place had been beset by demons and abominations. Of course they'd be a little harder on the charges there.

If Alfsigr's reaction to the kiss wounds Vergil, he doesn't betray any pain. His expression conveys only intent interest, as if the crowd of revelers around them did not exist, as if Alfsigr were the only person in the whole world.

"A surprisingly complimentary attitude. Then you aren't a whole-hearted supported of the Southern mages' bid for self-determination? The Circle system- it makes some sense to you?"

He follows the question with an apologetic frown.

"I'm sorry to talk politics, my dear, I realize it's uncouth, but I'm still a stranger in a strange land. And you're the loveliest, friendliest face I've yet to encounter."

"I... I don't know what to believe. Some of the Circles were awful - I've heard stories." They all have. By now it's fairly obvious why everything went to shit. Alfsigr fidgets, clasping her hands in front of her and pressing her fingers against each other in a nervous gesture. "But it's all right. I don't mind talking about it. I just... nobody usually asks my opinion is all."

The young woman sighs and shrugs a little helplessly. "I didn't hate it. The system worked for me. My family abandoned me when it was decided my magic was more of a burden than a gift. The Circle took me in when I had nowhere else to turn."

Vergil restrains a smile as he perceives Alfsigr's nerves, hears her attest to her own ancillary status. So demure, so unassuming- he never would have imagined it from someone touched by the Fade.

"Really? It seems to me that yours is the opinion that matters most." Vergil leans forward, again aiming to create a sense of confidence, of privacy within the crowd. And to convey that he is really listening. "The Maker gave you a remarkable gift. If he hadn't wanted you to decide how it should be used, he wouldn't have granted it."

His hands descend from their position as prop, folding on the middle of the table between them.

"So would you have it all back the way it was? At least the good things? What would have you changed, if you had the authority?"

The idea of being proud or boastful of her magic seems detrimental to her health, honestly. Standing atop Skyhold's ramparts and screaming for the Templars to pay attention to her could have a very similar effect.

"The--" Alfsigr's eyes widen just a little, catching herself in some verbal stumble before it becomes something she doesn't want to divulge. "I don't always feel blessed by the Maker, I admit. But I do think there is a plan. I'm not certain where I fit in to it, but I'm sure I'll find my way someday."

Even if she believes it is the Creators that will guide her.

"I was safe in the Circle. People fear us, and inside of those walls I was safe. I miss that. If I could change something, I'd prefer to have more opportunities to travel to different parts of the world. At least to other Circles."

"You should visit the Circles in Tevinter," Vergil says, "given the chance. I've never feared mages. Many of my Chantry brothers were mages."

This is not strictly true - the stuff about fear, that is; it is difficult not to find dread in the prospect of someone who can set you afire with one thought, then freeze you solid with the next. But he draws a line between this practical fear and the superstitious terror he imagines is more typical of a southerner.

"That's not to say Tevinter doesn't have its woes. Not to say that some things there won't shock you. But you have the gift- you will be treated with respect. And I believe that the South has a great deal to learn from the North, and vice versa."

This really is true, and to make that as clear as it can be, Vergil adopts a guileless expression, hands spreading before him in a wide gesture of harmlessness. He's just said a lot, just owned directly to his origin and role. He might as well own to his purpose.

"That is why I am here."

The notion of a place where mages aren't feared is alien to Alfsigr, and she is slightly dubious of the idea that Tevinter would be different. Aren't Tevinter's magisters held up as an example to all for why magic is to be feared? Not that she hasn't heard people say that such depictions are all just Chantry dogma, lies meant to keep the mages of the South sequestered from the rest of the world.

"I'm not certain that I would be treated as you say." She's also heard stories of how elves are treated in the North. "Do you hope to learn from us here? If you hope to teach us something, I think you'll find we're very stubborn as a people. Change isn't something that comes easily." This horribly uncivil war is a bleak example of that very thing.

"If you were a guest of my family," Vergil assures her, "you would receive every honor that was your due."

Again, this not quite equal to the truth. Being laetans, Vergil's house has some legal and social standing, but they are hardly the inviolable, not when the altus families do indeed hold every seat in the Magisterium. To be fair, it is less fear than simmering resentment and the occasional out and out quarrel. But Vergil is not sober enough to untangle this skein in a way that is safe for a first encounter. And anyways, the promise of a trip to distant Tevinter is not actionable, not yet, not by a long shot. It is no more than a fantasy he wishes to draw her into.

"You speak of an unwillingness to change to someone from the oldest nation in Thedas," Vergil says, grin going crooked, "if anything, I hope to find a much greater flexibility here. I am banking on a willingness to change." Albeit in the face of crisis. "The trouble with a glorious past is that it lures people into imagining there is some way of returning to it. But the river only ever flows one way, unless the Maker deems otherwise. The South must always look to the future. That is what I hope to win. A future."

But this is much too serious a point of discussion. Fine to broach, fine to let her see his enthusiasm, his progressive outlook, his appreciation for her heritage (a heritage the full scope of which he does not yet recognize or understand). But to linger on lofty matters? Bad for a first encounter with a pretty girl.

"I am also hoping to learn a few new dance steps," Vergil says, by way of turning the page, "I'll confess, I've been hoping to hear the bard play something I recognize, so I could take you in hand with confidence, but I suspect that when the time comes you may have to take the lead."

Sure, maybe if she always wore her hair down, or creatively plaited to cover the shape of her ears that have always been enough to draw suspicion from those with a prejudice. (Nearly anybody outside of her Circle, in Alfsigr's experience. Her parentage was never in question there.)

She seems about to comment on that, or about the nature of rivers and futures, but he seems keen to move things forward, and he catches her off her guard again with more talk of dancing. "I'm afraid I'll just step on your toes." Alfsigr takes her wine glass in both hands and takes a drink, then shrugs. You know, because of reasons.

He ought to notice her ears. Evidence of mixed parentage is all over the Imperium, a grim reminder of the legacy of slavery, the products of unequal social relations more often than cross-cultural romance-proper. Yet if he has noticed, he hasn't mentioned them. Perhaps his recognition is unconscious, and his social presumption a function of the ease he feels dealing with an inferior. Maybe she's just too pretty for him to care. Maybe he's just drunk enough not to notice.

Either way, he doesn't retreat. Vergil hasn't gotten this far in life through meekness.

"A slight thing like you? I doubt it'll cause me pain. Tread without fear."

His eyes say 'trust me', though his smile makes it hard to say precisely what she should trust him to do.

"If you stumble, I promise to catch you."

To be fair, she's made a habit of hiding those ears of hers. There's less she can do about the almost too-wide eyes and the shape of her nose, but there's a lot a person can rationalize away. People have a funny tendency to see only what they wish to.

"Do you?" Her eyes sparkle for a moment, then she reminds herself that this is all just a silly fantasy, and some of that delight is tempered. Though not entirely extinguished. "Are you always this charming?"

Rose coloring is the least of distortions when seeing the world through a lens of wine and desire. It doesn't help - or in another sense, it helps a great deal - that wide eyes and elfin nose are comely features. Nothing is more readily aestheticized than otherness, after all.

"I try always to be gracious," Vergil says, invitation still suspended in the air between them - he is persistent, if nothing else.

"But for you I'll confess to exceptional effort."

What can he possibly see in her? Alfsigr contemplates this as she takes a drink from her cup, her eyes staring into their muted and claret-tinted reflection. Would it be so terrible to entertain this notion? She could afford the fantasy for a night, couldn't she?

An insidious thought creeps into her mind: Are these the same thoughts that had gone through her mother's head?

"I'm nobody, sir," she murmurs demurely. "Hardly worth your effort, let alone the amount of time you've spent on me so far."

"Nobody? Preposterous."

Vergil does not truly see the struggle going on within Alfsigr. He is blind to it, just as he is blind to her mixed blood, despite the signs that can plainly be seen- her hesitation and self-deprecation as clear to the eye as her elfin features. But these, too, provide no disincentive to Vergil. If anything, they serve as encouragement. Debate is, after all, one of his specialities.

"I assure you, my dear, you do have a body One that youth and good fortune have been so good as to grace with two strong legs, and fine feet to match."

Vergil steps closer, letting his voice drop low enough to make the address as private as it can be managed in the hubbub. It is as if he is imparting some sort of secret, though what he says is a poet's formula likely older than the Chant of Light itself.

"Why waste those gifts? We have them for so little a time."

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{ open } I left the only home I knew

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